Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Two days after his first encounter with an infected person, he’d shot and killed Calvin at the bottom of the L.A. River. 

He hasn’t thought much about it. A few hours after the scuffle he was at home with his family, emotions shelved and onto the next thing. He would have trouble finding them now if somebody asked. The drugs and the detox might have helped muddy it, a little. 

He’s not sure why this one is so tacky, sticking to the surface like name brand duct tape residue that won't scrub off without a chisel. Doesn’t know why it won’t stay in the damn box he keeps cramming it into. Maybe it has something to do with the blood still staining the desk he passes every time he needs a smoke. 

So, often.

His mom is off to make a deal for water. What she should have done is made a deal with Walker to, you know, take the most qualified person to help them secure what is essentially a score. But she didn't, so he's here pounding electrolytes like cheap vodka. Alicia has been bunking with Jake because he’s lonely and it’s advantageous to have an in with the last Otto standing. The cliff note there is that he’s been left mostly to his own devices. Historically those devices would lead him to comfortably numb by sundown and sleeping like the dead after a headshot. Instead he just sort of — wanders around. 

Up and down, back and forth. Kitchen, dining room, living room, study, bathroom, bathroom, bedroom, bedroom… on and on and fucking on. He’ll probably commit all 3,000 square feet to memory before he manages a decent night’s sleep. 

Nick isn’t unfamiliar with the quick passage of time. This isn’t a new concept. He’s gone from English class, to an OD in a pay-by-the-hour motel, to thirty days of inpatient and started from the top in barely more than a month. This just feels a little extreme.  

Jeremiah had been a bad guy. Nick had fallen for his act for like — a week. Found kinship in shared demons and sage, pseudo-fatherly advice. But one day you’re rebuilding a home with a guy, the next you’re making a target out of his forehead.

It’s a lot to digest. 

-x- 

“You can’t be here,” Nick says. He can, though. Nick is maybe half awake, and he’s more glad to see Troy alive than he is worried about the implications of him being here. 

“Here I am,” Troy says, smooth and with a shrug. He’s crouched just outside the window, on the eve because why would he use the back door. “Gonna invite me in?” 

Nick rubs his neck, takes a step back to make space and throws his hand out, “it’s your house. Just get inside before Crazy Dog sees you.”

Troy climbs through the window, long limbs bumping against the sill and half open pane as he grips the edges to haul himself through. Curtains follow along, obscuring his face and falling behind when he rights himself, takes a step into the room. 

There’s a coy smile pulling at Troy’s lips as Nick takes stock of him. He looks — the same. Better than Nick when he’d rolled out of the hot box.  

“Glad you’re alive,” Nick says, “what are you doing here?” He backs up a pace to bump against the foot of the bed, sits down. He is, glad. It feels a lot like seeing Alicia and his mom for the first time since leaving them in Mexico, and that’s fine. He’s too tired to consider it. 

“Couldn’t stay away,” Troy says. He seems a little shifty, a little crazed. The smile is cemented, though. 

“Okay,” Nick rubs at his eyes, blinks away the sleep. “The watchtower is easier to sneak up to, why are you here?” 

Troy’s eyes look a shade darker, a few feet closer to the deep end. He says, “my dad is here, though,” brow furrowed like, duh.

Nick can feel his pulse heating up his eardrums when he says, “…not anymore.” Scrunches his eyes like... duh.  

Troy’s grin widens. He shakes his head and takes a step towards Nick. “Sure he is,” he lowers his voice. “He’s right downstairs where you left him.” 

Nick’s stomach is working on turning itself inside out when Troy starts to raise a hand, maybe to reach out, but footsteps echo up the stairs and Nick snaps his attention towards the door. Stares like he can see through it and listens for another sound. 

When Nick turns back to gauge Troy’s reaction he’s gone, and when he blinks he can only really see out of one eye. 

His face is on a pillow, he’s on his stomach, and he’s alone.  

His instincts catch up before the rest of him and he leaps out of bed, grabs his knife from the nightstand and reorients, readies himself to meet whoever is climbing the stairs. It’s loud and if they’re trying to get the jump they’re failing. The clomping stops as they reach the door, and Nick has his arm wrapped around a neck before the guy has time to struggle —

He’d rather deal with the infected than Troy’s merry band of mutineers. 

All he wants to do is go back to sleep. It’s the middle of the night and he spent the last one easy baking in a three-by-three above ground coffin. What he absolutely does not want to do is talk about feelings with a bunch of hot headed trigger fingers.  He couldn’t pull their names out of his ass if Alicia’s life was on the line.

They’ve migrated to the living room and all Nick can think about is the pack of smokes sitting on the table beside the couch, whispering his name. He goes to flick on a light but one of them immediately turns it off which is annoying, but he’s also not all that interested in seeing their faces so, whatever. The moon shines bright enough through the window to get the picture — three of them, each with a very serious curve to their brow. 

“What you did in here meant a lot,” it's... the short one. 

Fine. “You’re welcome,” he says, because maybe they’ll leave him alone.

But, “we’re ready to fight, if you are.” He’s not. He wasn’t with Troy, and he sure as shit isn’t with this squirmy group of morons. 

They just, stare at him. It’s as uncomfortable as they are unwelcome. He rubs at his face, forces his eyes to the sides and ahead, every which way but the roll they’re eager to go on. Says something about not having guns, keeping a low profile.

They say they brought him a gift, giddy like they’re imparting something extraordinary, a game changer. Like they’re about to blow his mind, like he is going to be so proud of them. 

It’s a revolver with six bullets. He tries not to grimace.

And — maybe it’s better for him than for them, to have it. Maybe if they’re looking to him they won’t try to pull the same shit their fearless leader had. Doesn’t think any of them are as fated to survive something like that. 

They call it “the last free gun on the ranch,” which, doubtful. He’d bore witness to Troy’s Winchester mansion of hidden artillery. On the low end he’d estimate a dozen still floating around the ranch. There’s probably one duct taped behind the toilet bowl in the upstairs bathroom. 

But, “If anyone deserves this, it’s you,” and inadvertently, without his consent and without trying at all, he’s been voted in. To take up Troy’s mantle and offer them salvation by way of tangential genocide. This isn’t a sheep farm, but. Could have fooled him. 

He doesn’t have to say anything. Evidently accepting the gun is enough for them. Shorty tells him to rest begs off with Cooper, he thinks, and a kid whose name he’ll never remember but looks like he should be scraping gum off the bottom of desks in detention, not running with a clandestine militia hell bent on a western showdown.

-x-

When he falls back asleep Ofelia asks him again if he feels guilty and this time he says no and what he really means is not for the things I should.

-x-

There are two incorrect assumptions circulating — his family believes he jumped in to talk Troy down because he feels guilty about Jeremiah; the rest think he joined Troy in his dogfight because he wants to liberate the ranch from the Indians. Wrong, more wrong. 

The truth is… he’s not sure what the truth is. It’s nowhere near the middle. 

If he feels guilt, it’s not about Jeremiah. His conversation with Troy at the grave had pulled him down like a cement block to the bottom of a lake. He’d felt bad for him. Hadn’t needed another reason to relate to the guy, but there it was. Peas, pod. But that isn’t why he shut the door behind him. He also hadn’t gone in guns blazing in an effort to protect guns. It’s not his fight. It had only felt that way when all sights were trained to Troy.

The closest thing to an answer he has is that he hadn’t been ready for the guy to die. 

Troy is the first thing that hasn’t made total sense to Nick since the world went bottoms up. Until him, it had been paint by numbers simple. A linear progression of this is what I have to do next, and there hadn’t been this blank to draw when he went to work it out. 

And then there was why do you care what happens to me? And he’s got no fucking idea. Troy feels larger than life in a lot of ways, makes Nick feel alive, and looks real in a way that Nick can’t put his finger on. He’s concrete, and maybe Nick has been compelled to save him because it’s as close to saving himself as he can get. 

It’s also just pretty boring, without him. 

-x-

Eyes follow his movements around the ranch, suspicion or veneration, fear and awe. The attention is getting to his head, it’s intrusive and they could at least pay him if they’re going to turn him into a sideshow.

Alicia is busy trying to save everybody, his mom is smuggling water, or something. Luciana left her goodbye on a napkin days ago, Ofelia poisoned him, he shot Jerimiah in the face. Troy is wandering the desert somewhere, a day or two out from drinking his own piss. If he’s going to be this alone he’d prefer to be invisible, not oscillating between pariah and a paragon of vengeance. 

He fixes his eyes on the chafing dishes as he moves down the packed buffet that looks so normal he can almost overlook the environment. Serves himself a modest helping of eggs and bacon and doesn’t wait for a slice of bread to toast, just sets one cold piece on top of the eggs and moves along. Thinks about taking it to the house, but Alicia has stressed that he needs to show interest in the community. This is an easy checkmark. 

He takes a seat at a table with neutral people; a family with a preteen son and a nondescript middle aged couple.

Crazy Dog eyes him. The militia is made of furrowed brows.

The woman across from him comments on the weather and he smiles and nods and makes mindless small talk that the family seems to appreciate. At least there’s no effort spared.

-x-

His bones are vibrating beneath his tendons, muscle, skin. He’s not really sleeping and it’s like there’s always something lurking around the corner, more ominous than the militia. Hiding in the shadows and waiting for him to let down his guard. 

He guesses there kind of is, if ghosts count. 

So, he traces the angles of vaulted ceilings and gets lost in the knots in the wood and sometimes he stubs his toe going up the stairs in the middle of the night, too exhausted to sleep. 

Maybe he’s what goes bump in the night. 

-x-

He's being led down a path near the farm’s border and then he’s ushered through a door in the ground, a cellar that's not as well hidden as they think it is. It takes one lap of the second hand to conclude that there isn’t a single guy here who has ever picked where to go for dinner. They’re looking for somebody to hold the leash and tell them where to go. They’re scared, might lash out, so.

He sort of works himself up, appeals to their common sense — they don’t have guns, they need to wait, don’t attack first, etcetera, mind-numbing. But, biding time is better than action here. If he can talk enough circles around these guys, he may be able to prevent further bloodshed until… his mom gets back? He’s not even sure. Maybe it’s delaying the inevitable. 

Cooper, it’s for sure Cooper, gets a little carried away and if it didn’t feel like there were lives on the line Nick would squash this “you’re the one that stood up with Troy” narrative. It’s grating and it’s like herding… sheep, it is actually a sheep farm.

If we attack we’ll end up just like Troy, blah blah, “that’s why he’s out there and we’re in here,” and Nick is starting to wish he was out there, too. 

They ask, “what’s the threshold?”

And he says, “we’re at it.”

So, he’ll deal with that later. Maybe when he’s slept through the night.

Alicia is waiting to interrogate him the second he walks through the door. It’s “you asshole,” it’s a scolding, and he’s pretty fucking over everything. If I have it, it means they can’t use it; they’re listening to me. At least he has a cigarette now, thinks he’d rather take the first degree from the cherry.

“What happens when they find out what you and mom did?” and he should have known, he’s never seen anything slip by her.  

She says more of what she’s thinking than she keeps in her head. He’d contest some of the things she’s saying if he had anything left tonight.

Except, “I didn’t do it for her.” He has enough to counter that. 

It sends her right back into it and he sort of flinches when she raises her voice, “No? Then who did you do it for?” It’s almost theatrical, “if you didn’t do it for her then you did it for the ranch, these people. You’re not that kind of person,” she says.

He smirks, but — ouch. 

She’s not wrong. 

“Look at what killing got us Nick, look at what it’s done to you,” she says. It’s funny because she didn’t like who he’d become before the infection, either. Heroin or killing, killing himself or others, it doesn’t make a difference.

She’s still wielding a hammer so, “we keep trying to make her love us, she’s broken.” 

He’s not convinced that’s what he was doing, and he’s pretty sure his mom loves him but, yeah. He can’t argue that she’s broken. He can’t say he’s not, either.

What he would like is for everybody to stop telling him why he’s making his decisions. He’s twisted up enough on his own, doesn’t need the entire peanut gallery projecting their shit onto him. Could use a minute to tease it out for himself.

He takes a drag and flicks the ash and she walks away.

-x-

Nick picks up on it quicker, this time. 

It doesn’t dull the image of Jeremiah standing at the foot of his bed, blood spilling, splitting his face in two and flowing into a menacing leer that turns out a wail before Nick has time to react. Doesn’t stop the echo of a scream from ringing in his ears when he opens his eyes, or the breath he has to catch. 

-x-

The world is well and truly fucked if Nick’s the one keeping the peace. 

It’s not that he wants to. 

It’s just that nobody is doing it and he’s — pretty fed up. 

It’s annoying, abrasive, and there’s no mainlining Tylenol. It’s been all shouting and infighting and hair pulling since Walker’s people arrived, and he can’t be the only one who’s tired of it. Somebody needs to make a move, and it shouldn’t be him, but if it’s not going to be anybody else, well.

Alicia’s intentions are good; she just can't follow anything through with a threat, and threats trump reason. He’s got a gun to throw the weight and at least everybody shuts up when he brandishes it. Makes a clear statement: the well is theirs, Walker’s people can pump their own water. No more of this wishy-washy, placate both sides bullshit. The line needs to be in stone, not sand.

Nick’s not making many friends, and maybe Troy wasn’t as far off from the right idea as he’d thought. 

-x-

The only thing he’s sure about right now is that he is doomed to catch only fleeting glimpses of the inside of his eyelids for the rest of time.  

The militia starts preparing for a fight the moment their jugs are filled, and they enlist the help of all willing community members. So, most of them. It looks like they’re gearing up to go prehistoric against a load of assault rifles. 

It’s approaching the tipping point. 

Part of him wants to strike a match and watch it burn. To cosign the fortification, the attack, step back and watch them play it out, have at it. He isn’t a pacifist by nature, and he’s losing steam. He could post up on the watchtower with a cigarette and whatever liquor Jeremiah hadn’t drowned himself in. Sit back and watch the fuse hit.  

But, he’s not quite there yet. Hasn’t pulled enough rope to meet the end and there’s still this churning in his stomach that says he won’t escape the guilt if he taps out now.

Nick knows he has to give a little. They’re dumb but they’re working on sharpening their tools. The shed’s inching closer to a problem by the hour. He needs to mollify them or he’ll be removed from the loop, usurped, and there will be no eyes on the millicia at all.

“If we can get their guns this back and forth, eye for an eye bullshit ends; disarm them, there’s no blood.” There’s no way they can disarm them. 

Cooper voices what he’s thinking: “Or there's a lot of blood,” and, yeah. But at least they’re not making moves tonight.  

-x-

He is making moves tonight. His shot at sleep went out the window when a bunch of guys who would have been picked on in high school sat on the couch and started sharpening literal spears. 

He knows where tile could use regrouting, which light bulbs need replaced, every drawer that’s hard to pull and every cabinet that doesn’t want to stay shut. He knows when a creak will meet his step and sometimes he imagines one of the brothers sneaking out after dark, hopping over the second step from the bottom or cheating to the left in the upstairs hallway. 

He hasn’t been everywhere, though.

Troy’s room is at the top of the landing, the first door on the right. Nick thinks it’s pretty bleak, pretty fucked, that he hadn’t been allowed to take anything with him. But, Taqa’s M.O. would have sent Troy away with less than the clothes on his back so — in context, he got lucky. Troy would probably disagree. 

Nick has been curious — wondered what somebody like Troy would keep behind closed doors, what he may have hiding in his closet. Not much, it turns out. It’s tidy and bare bones, with blank beige walls and sturdy, borderline utilitarian furniture. One of the tall wooden closet doors is ajar so Nick finishes the job, pulls it the rest of the way and opens the other. Neutral clothes hang from a long wooden rod, shoes lined neatly below, and beside them a dresser that he thinks twice about going through. It’s appallingly bland, he wonders briefly if it might have a shot at interesting if he's willing to dig deeper. He shuts both doors. 

There’s a floor mirror tucked in the far left corner like an afterthought. There are a few more pillows than he would have expected resting against the headboard of a well made bed, it only stands out because there’s fuck all else to zero in on. 

The only thing that hints at a personality is an orderly stack of journals near the edge of a desk that sits under the window. The spines grow more faded from the bottom of the pile, weathered as the world began to end. Nick picks up the top one, examining the soft leather held shut with a thin cord that might as well be a padlock. He isn’t even a little tempted to flip through it.

There’s a couple of journals that appear to be unused sitting beside the stack, and he decides not to question himself when he tucks one under his arm before leaving to pick up the tour. 

Jake’s room is next door, which is unexpected. They don’t seem like two people who grew up sharing a wall, but maybe they’d think the same of Alicia and him. Prince and princess sleeping beside their black sheep brothers. 

There are sports trophies three deep on the top of a bookshelf on the far wall. Every shelf is packed with books, small gaps filled by keepsakes that only mean something to Jake. There are framed posters of old movies and a bulletin board with photos and pages torn from novels. It’s stalled in time. Doesn’t look like he bothered to move much over to the watchtower, but it's not like they’re hurting for room.

He’s been out of the house for years, to the city and back, stays in a different building across the ranch where he presumably has even more shit, and it looks more lived in than Troy’s. Maybe because Jake had been allowed to grow and to flesh himself out, pick up a hobby or two. He hadn’t been tucked away from the world like a liability. 

The master is at the end of the hall. His mom has been staying there which is so, so weird. He pauses but it’s not even a thought, really. The door stays shut and he keeps moving. And moving, and moving.

-x-

Nick exhales for the first time this century when the tanker pulls up. 

It rolls to the gate and he’s off the balcony, jogging down the dusty slope of the driveway to help unhitch the fence.  

His mom is driving, she’s sporting this grin that he’s not sure he’s ever seen. Proud, genuine, happy. So, they found it. They’re saved and maybe he doesn’t have to talk anybody off a ledge today. Maybe they can all take a breath together. 

“Picked up some hitchhikers,” she says, leaning out the open window as she passes through the gate. He’s following the movement with slow strides, grinning back and less curious than he is relieved. 

He angles to squint past her, and — of course. 

Victor Strand. The world’s most charming cockroach. He’s flashing a bright smile at Nick, “what a sight for my sore eyes,” Strand says. 

Walker is directly behind his mom, and there’s that identical smile. None of them can shake it. Which feels like a miracle given that, sitting beside him sharing in the excitement, is Troy.

“Troy?” Nick blurts.

Troy grins with all his teeth, leans forward. His eyes widen beyond what seems natural. “Somebody had to come find me, since you didn’t,” he says. 

It’s a barb, feels like an accusation. 

Which Nick thinks is a load of shit because he’d also been punished, and he’s been carrying a lot of the weight left in Troy’s wake. There’s also the whole bit about being sure Walker would put his head on a fence post if he were to step foot back on his land. 

Nick doesn’t have a chance to respond before he’s pulling a pillow over his head to shield the light pouring in from the window. He always forgets to close the damn curtains.

-x-

He’s chain smoking like there's an open 7-Eleven down the street. Future Nick can deal with that, if future Nick survives long enough to burn through his stash.

He’s so drained he doesn’t care anymore. He’s unlikely to be happy with any of the outcomes he’s looking at and it’s just... nobody here is all that interesting, he’s tired of meeting them at their level. At least this will speed things up.

It’s not as easy to go full steam ahead as they crouch below a mound of dying grass, a few hundred feet from the adobe. In broad daylight. When Ofelia and Crazy Dog are inside and have definitely spotted them. At least the infected can’t shoot. Here they might as well be armed with paintball guns and foam swords, it’s about all the good their spears and bows and — shovels? Fucking shovels. Will do against the ranch’s entire artillery. 

He doesn’t mind getting himself whacked but he’d rather not bring everybody down with him.

He’s itching right up until the moment he spots Alicia digging for water alongside a group of Walker’s people. She’s saving him from himself. Feels familiar.

The militia follows him because of course they do and it won’t fix things but at least he doesn’t have to deal with it today. Future Nick and all.

-x-

Nick is saying what are you doing here but his voice isn't working and Troy walks towards him three times faster than Nick can back away. He goes straight through him. 

Nick follows him down the stairs.

Troy stands in front of Jerimiah’s desk for a beat before planting himself in the chair. He scoots up to the desk, puts both elbows down and rests his chin in his hands. He sits higher than Jerimiah ever did but looks smaller, doesn’t quite fit. He’s not looking at Nick, doesn’t appear to be fixed on any particular point as he stares ahead.

Troy sighs, “what’s the payoff when I don’t even want to be here?” 

Nick is frozen in place. His chest is moving fast, in-out, in-out, but he doesn’t think he needs to be breathing.  

Troy’s eyes flick to him, indifferent. “Why am I here, Nick?”

Somewhere he’s aware that it’s not Troy speaking. That he’s talking to himself. “I don’t know man,” he sighs. “I’m tired.”

“Try sleeping in the dirt,” Troy says. His face muddies, dust settles into the creases and spreads across his hands, his clothes.  

Nick grimaces. Tries to look away but he’s not in control. 

“I’ll be dust before you know it,” Troy says.

Troy is strong and Nick tries to tell him as much, but his breathing speeds up and then he’s looking at the beams in the ceiling that run parallel over his bed.

-x-

Ofelia nods as he grabs a plate of meat from a cow he shot between the eyes. Crazy Dog does, too, which almost has him walking into the bench of a picnic table. It looks like his act of camaraderie has turned the tide, but it’s tenuous and you don’t get over pitchforks in a day.

This place is too cramped. Smells like a different version of death than he’s used to and he’s not the center of attention, but it’s close enough.

Nick carries his plate back up to the house. He sets it on a small table near the sliding door that leads to the balcony. He should cover it in something, stick it in the fridge for later. There are six cigarettes left in the pack but there are more in his dresser so he might as well burn through these today. 

He isn’t sure why the tentative truce is making him more anxious. Maybe it’s the inevitable drop of a shoe. Maybe he doesn’t feel suited to peacekeeping. Maybe it’s the tedium, the hollow beat of a steady drum. If there’s a ceasefire and there’s nothing to fight against, no friction or conflict — what the hell is he supposed to do with himself? Messy is comfortable, it’s distracting and he’s been sort of thriving. As close as he comes to it. 

If he has to just, sit with himself? That’s never gone well. 

He leans on his palms, cigarette hanging from his lips, and looks over the edge. There’s nothing to see. People are traipsing through the lawn, kids playing and parents trailing after. The towering tree that marks the hub moves with the breeze and he can still smell the cow when the wind shifts in his direction.

“You didn’t like your steak,” Alicia points out. He hadn’t heard the door slide open, or shut. She joins him at the railing. 

He wrinkles his nose, shakes his head. “We’re going to have enough jerky to last a year — I’ll pass.” 

She slides his pack of smoke towards her, pulls one out and goes to light it. Nick raises his brows, almost impressed, “I’m corrupting you,” he smirks. 

Alicia exhales. It looks weird, doesn’t fit his image of her. “You look like shit,” she says.

She's being generous, he laughs. Still side eyes her.

“You sleeping?” She asks.

Nick sighs. Is he sleeping? Sort of. “Yeah, in fits and starts,” he says, when they let me. “I killed a man, now I’m sleeping in his house.” 

Alicia looks unimpressed as she points to the valley, “could pitch a tent in the field.”

“That a joke?” It's sincere. Maybe he should.

She moves to face him, she’s all but forgotten the cigarette hanging from her fingers. “You killed an evil old man, to save your family.” It’s blunt, she’s always direct. 

He raises his eyebrows because, another assumption. “I did it so mom didn’t have to,” maybe it lands like a joke and maybe it is.

“You’re worried about her?” she asks.

He nods, “yeah, of course.” It’s quiet, time for an inhale and a slow exhale. 

“You’re worried about Troy?” It’s a question, it’s a guess. 

It’s right on the money, if his subconscious is weighing in.

Nick stares out beyond the valley, presses his fingers to the banister, doesn’t look at her because Alicia knows when there’s more to it. “I took his father from him.”

“And that’s what’s keeping you up at night?” she presses. Fucking — yes, actually.

Nick turns around, rests his back against the banister and lets go of a huff. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Makes it obvious when he crosses his arms, rubs at them nervously and looks up to the porch roof. She never lets it be.

“Nick, how many fathers has Troy killed?” She asks, pointedly. He sighs again, rolls his eyes and settles into the lecture.

“How many sons, how many daughters,” she continues. She splays her arms like hello. Like he doesn’t get it, like he’s being unreasonable.

She’s the one who brought it up. He’s tired and he’s antsy so he pushes away and turns to sit in the chair across from her. It’s plush and he slouches into it, wishes he could sink back until she can’t see him. He flicks his eyes at her, annoyed.

“You don’t owe Troy,” she drawls. He looks up steadily, ready to protest. “You like him.” 

And — he can’t protest, so he glares at her instead.

“You share the same self-destruction,” she finishes.

“Maybe I’m as sick as he is,” he reasons. He breaks the stare, turns his head as he takes a drag. The cigarette burns to the filter and he has to chuck it over the edge. It leaves him fidgeting, not sure what to do with his hands.

“You’re not,” she says. She grabs the smokes and lighter from the ledge, holds them out for him. He gives her a half smile before placing a new lifeline between his lips.

He looks up at her as he goes to light it, eyebrows raised with a question. I’m not?

He doesn’t need to ask. He wants her to spell it out, anyway. 

You have a disease. It’s different. 

“There’s no helping somebody like that,” is what she goes with.

Because Nick can circle back to rehab, the Troy's of the world don't pass GO. It implies that Nick had wanted to do more than divert the guy from a course of certain death. That he wanted to make him better, or something. Which, he hadn’t — doesn’t. He thinks he likes Troy the way he is, and that’s the jarring part. The maybe sick part.

Whatever it is, everything has felt off kilter since he watched Troy hop into the truck as he walked into that box. The days sit at a dull angle that’s sort of miserable, washed out. 

"Maybe not," he muses, rubbing the back of his neck. Lets his fingernails pull at the skin as he pulls from his smoke.

She's wrong, though. He can help Troy, if he wants to. Anybody could — bring him food or water, a change of clothes, ammunition or fucking something to defend himself with. Matches, books, a journal... and, it feels like he should have seen it coming. Should have had time to set up a checkpoint, sweep for bad ideas. Maybe he couldn't have stopped himself, maybe it’s a result of the unabating guilt trip when he dares to reach REM. More likely it wasn’t until Alicia spelled it out all of sixty seconds ago. 

Doesn’t matter. When he decided. 

“I think I need to find him,” he mutters around the cigarette. He’s not exactly looking at her now, but he can feel her eyes trying to burn through his skin.

She screws up her face, leans back against the post and crosses her arms. She blows air out her cheeks like she would when they were kids, when she caught him breaking some arbitrary rule that she would never — it’s cartoonish and it’s Alicia.  

“Nick. That’s ridiculous,” He can feel her looking, trying to catch his eye. He plays like he’s ignoring it, but she snakes her head to draw his attention, forcing it. Raises her brows like explain yourself.

He sucks in a breath. Lets his shoulders deflate as he rubs at his forehead, sinks forward into his hands. “I’m spinning out, Lish,” he grumbles. “I’m playing both sides of this… stupid fight. I don’t want to play either one. I never asked for that.” 

“People trust you,” she says, “it’s not the worst thing in the world.” 

Nick shakes his head. “I don’t even trust myself,” he says. He never has. She never has. 

“And you trust Troy?” she asks, like he's the dumbest person, like he needs to repeat every grade. “You’re going to get yourself killed, Nick.”

“I don’t think he’ll hurt me,” he says, lifting his head to look at her.  

She stares him down, doesn’t have to say it. Mike.  

What makes Nick any different, apart from having a fraction of the foundation.

“I told him about Jerimiah,” Nick says. “He had a gun in his hands, and he didn’t shoot me.”

He’s convincing himself as much as he is Alicia. And he is, convinced. Mostly. "Pointed right at me. He surrendered and he didn't shoot me," it had been in desperation, but Nick thinks, "I don't think I expected him to." Might have said it out loud.

She nods, considering. He waits for it to settle. 

“What are you going to do if you find him?” she asks, still irritated. She puts a hand on her hip, shakes her head with wide eyes. It’s obvious, Nick. “He can’t come back here.”

He doesn’t know. He knows. He shrugs. “Take out infected. Show him the blood thing,” his lips quirk down as his forehead scrunches up and he straightens. He’s pulling shit out of the air and really it’s just — “get some peace of mind.” A good night’s sleep.

Alicia lets out this exaggerated breath through her nose, but she’s always known better than anybody how to let him go. 

“You gonna stop me?” he asks.

She huffs, “could I?”

“Could try,” he says.

She turns around to gaze across the farm. Leans against the railing, letting her heels lift in a stretch. She looks back over her shoulder, “I’m not going to stop you,” she plants her feet. “I’m not chasing you — that’s mom’s job.” 

He snorts. She’s right, but he wonders, “are you gonna tell her?” 

She eyes him, thoughtful. “Not my job, either.”

Nick nods, drags the ash of another downed comrade along the wooden armrest before grabbing it for leverage, pushing himself up. Slides the smokes and lighter into his back pocket. He pauses next to her, gives her a meaningful smile as he squeezes her arm before moving towards the door. 

He’s stepping through when she says, “hey, Nick.”

He turns back and she’s not looking at him, but she says, “bring some supplies, be careful.”